


The Secret Santa Affair

by rabidsamfan



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:43:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidsamfan/pseuds/rabidsamfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya finds Christmas shopping a challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret Santa Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saklani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saklani/gifts).



> Beta thanks to clevertoad, kmc, Gaya and Rubynye, all of whom kicked me into finishing this on time.

 

 

What do you get for the secret agent who has everything?

Illya Kuryakin stared into the great glass windows of the department store, wondering why he couldn't summon up his usual disdain for the ridiculous abundance of capitalism. There were so many useless _things_ in the world, most of them painted in garish colors or encrusted with paste gemstones, and none of them necessary for survival or happiness or Napoleon Solo.

And that was the trouble, wasn't it? Because Napoleon never really did _need_ things. He might enjoy fancy clothes and luxurious surroundings and gourmet food, but if Illya had learned anything in the past eighteen months it was that his soft-seeming American counterpart could survive in perfect comfort under conditions so primitive they made a week in Siberia look like a holiday. Napoleon didn't need things. 

Rescuing maybe, now and then. Although lately it seemed as though Illya was the one who kept walking into traps. And Napoleon kept pulling him out of them.

Which might explain why ever since he'd drawn Napoleon's name out of the Secret Santa hat Illya had felt obliged to turn up for the Traditional Holiday Party at UNCLE HQ with something better than the gimcrack decorations that _he'd_ been gifted with last year. (Never mind that the plastic-headed elf still smiled relentlessly from its perch on the bookshelf in his apartment, its green felt legs tucked up in the circle of green felt arms. It was the _thought_ that counted, and Illya kept _thinking_ he was going to get rid of the silly thing. Even if Napoleon had dubbed it Sir Elfus with a tiny plastic sword out of the canapés and pretended it was singing "You Ain't Nuthin' But A Hound Dog" after his fifth cup of eggnog.)

Illya saw his reflection grinning at the memory and quickly put his face back into order. 

He could get some kind of joke present, he supposed. No one was supposed to admit to being a particular Secret Santa, although keeping that kind of secret on a long term basis was difficult if the recipient of the gift was a determined Enforcement Agent with a knack for deduction. And there was a part of Illya that _wanted_ Napoleon to know... 

_Ah._

_No, I am not going to put on a kilt and reenact a bad joke_ , he informed the part of him that had leapt up to make suggestions. _Not even if it is one of Napoleon's jokes._ He wasn't even quite certain that Napoleon would want that sort of gift, wrapped up in a blue ribbon or not. Although when they'd been forced to share a bed in that miserable fleatrap in Patagonia two weeks ago they'd definitely woken up with matching hard ons to go with the matching bruises. And Napoleon had begun to focus on Illya during the mutual application of arnica in a way that had made the bruises seem like quite a secondary consideration. Too bad Mr. Waverly had chosen that moment to check up on his charges. _Nothing like a call from the Old Man to deflate a man's...ego._

_Oh, help, now I'm **thinking** like Napoleon._

"Let me guess," the soft, suave voice from the vicinity of his left shoulder would have made him jump were it not for years of careful training. Illya kept very very still as his partner joined him in perusing the shopwindow. "You can't possibly choose between the gold-plated toothpick holder and that purple glass whateveritis in the corner."

"I think it must be some sort of ashtray," Illya answered, grateful to the same careful training for keeping his voice steady.

"It's three feet tall."

"Yes, but it can't really be anything else. If it were _pink_ perhaps..." Now he dared to look and enjoy the crinkles at the corners of the brown eyes and the rise of one eyebrow as Napoleon caught the inference. 

"There are _three_ bobbles at the base of the column," the dark haired agent objected mildly.

"Yes, well, overcompensation can come in many forms," Illya answered in his best "Professor" intonation, and was rewarded by the broad smile that served Napoleon better than a shout of laughter. 

"If it's suggestive statuary you're shopping for," Napoleon said, taking Illya's elbow with his free hand, the other being occupied with assorted packages, "there's a little shop in the Village which I can recommend."

"Not precisely," Illya said, letting himself be steered through the crowds of Christmas shoppers. A sudden inspiration had taken him. _Why not ask the man himself what he wants? Discreetly, of course._ "But I am trying to find a gift for less than twenty dollars."

Napoleon's mobile lips twisted wryly. "Ah. The annual challenge of being a Secret Santa. What about one of those cheese and sausage samplers? That's what you gave Sanderson last year."

"He seemed to like it," Illya said wryly. It hadn't been until after Christmas that he'd realized how very clichéd his gift had been. Although he had been glad enough to accept all the small cheeses and sausages that his landlady had fobbed off on him by New Year's Eve.

"Sandy liked anything as long as it was edible," Napoleon said, and his smile faded. Sanderson wouldn't be at this year's party -- he'd been killed in the assault on HQ last June.

"How did you know it was me?" Illya asked, hoping that a little boasting might distract Napoleon from whatever he was thinking. Fewer UNCLE personnel might have died that day if Napoleon had been able to warn Waverly in time, but being strapped down to a table and drugged unconscious constituted a reasonable excuse for tardiness in Illya's book.

Napoleon cast a sidewise glance at him from under hooded eyelids. "He was the only person you didn't watch unwrapping his gift," he said.

Illya felt his neck grow warmer. _You were watching me that closely?_ he wanted to ask. _Did you like what you saw?_ But instead he said, "I shall have to be more circumspect this year."

"What, and spoil half my fun?" Napoleon asked. 

Illya felt his eartips reddening. With any luck he could blame the phenomenon on the cold wind that was beginning to scour the Manhattan canyons now that the sun was hidden behind the taller buildings. "I thought your 'fun' was getting drunk and dancing with every girl who would let you," he said gruffly.

"Just pleasantly muddled," Napoleon corrected the description. "Being drunk spoils _all_ the fun." He paused at the curb to sweep a distrustful glance over the traffic before leading the way across the street. "You had a fair number of dances yourself."

If anything, Illya's neck grew even warmer. "They kept asking me," he said.

"You're a good dancer," Napoleon observed.

Now Illya knew his face to be coloring up obtrusively. "I like girls," he found himself mumbling. Which he did, if not exclusively.

Napoleon nodded complacently. "I like coffee," he observed, and then paused to look into the display windows of yet another one of the shops. "But I have been known to indulge in the occasional cup of tea."

For a moment their eyes met, and Illya found himself holding his breath. Napoleon's eyes were a rich chestnut brown, the color of the _zavarka*_ before you brought the glass to the samovar and added the _kipyatok_. "Russian tea?" he found himself asking.

"I've never been offered any," Napoleon said, inclining his head a little closer. "But I'm told it's quite good." 

_And you are saying this to me right on a crowded street?_ Illya knew he was in trouble when he couldn't tell if he were thinking in English or Russian. He was trying to assemble a witty reply -- in the right language -- when their communicators began to chime in unison.

_Oh, no, not again!_

**** 

The party was still going great guns, and the tiny tea party set that Napoleon had unwrapped three hours earlier had been thoroughly christened with miniature portions of brandy, thanks to April Dancer's insistence that Mark Slate demonstrate how to pour out. There was something about delicate rosepetal patterns on sturdy porcelain cups and teapot which appealed to the ten-year-old girl inside every woman in the room, and Slate was thoroughly enjoying the undeserved suspicion of being the one who had thought of 'giving Mr. Solo a chance to practice his social skills' as Mr. Waverly had put it.

Illya's gift had been a meticulously hand-knitted sweater done in eyeblinding shades of orange. He was fairly certain that it was the work of the petite strawberry blonde from Files who could never seem to remember how to talk when he was in the room, if only because she had been avoiding him all night. _Never mind._ He could commission another sweater in a nice safe black later. Tonight he had other plans. 

He wandered in the direction of Napoleon's chair, timing it to arrive just as the latest set of tea party fanciers were drawn off to the dance floor by a new song. "How's the knee?" he asked, nodding at the injury which had kept the American sidelined all evening.

"I think the swelling is going down." Napoleon looked up at Illya and pretended to shield his eyes from the glare. "That sweater should come in useful the next time you're trying to guide a jet airplane in for a landing."

Illya pretended to think about it. "I suppose I could take up hunting," he suggested, casting a considering eye at his sleeve.

"As long as you're not the one being hunted," Napoleon's response had a edge of bitterness that Illya understood, just as he understood why his partner quickly smiled and added in a much lighter tone, "Still, it fits beautifully. Very flattering."

_And after this week you want a distraction as much as I do. Good._

"It hides the bruises." Illya turned a complete round, like a girl on a fashion runway, and then gave Napoleon a little bow. "Even if it does resemble nothing quite so much as gift wrap."

Napoleon raised one eyebrow. "And have you found a volunteer to unwrap it?" he asked, glancing over at the tangle of dancers.

"Not yet," Illya said. He bent down to retrieve one of the small teacups from the assortment on the coffeetable. "But I'm willing to take an offer," he added _sotto voce_ as his mouth was, just coincidentally, very near Napoleon's ear.

With a great deal of satisfaction he observed the faint rise of pink above the edge of Napoleon's collar. He leaned back and pretended to study the cup in his hand. "I suppose you've had a surfeit of tea," he said.

Napoleon shook his head, one corner of his mouth tilting upwards. "Not quite. I have noticed that you haven't had any," he added. "Not in the mood for tea?"

Illya cast a considering look in the direction of Mark Slate. The Englishman was happily dancing with three women, but it was clear that he was going to need a break soon. "It wasn't my kind of tea party," he said, and then pretended disdain. "A Russian tea party lasts much much longer," he asserted. "We know how to keep things hot. I could demonstrate for you, if I had a samovar, but alas, it is back at my apartment."

"What a shame," Napoleon said, looking Illya up and down thoughtfully before reaching up to pluck the tiny teacup out of his hand. "Here," he said, once he'd disposed of it. "Give me a hand up."

Illya obliged, and was not entirely surprised when Napoleon's first attempt at rising ended in the dark-haired agent sitting back down abruptly and frowning. The small twinge of actual worry was solaced by the quick glance of the dark eyes that said 'don't overplay it' as clearly as words and he kept his voice low as he got a better grip on Napoleon's arm and hauled him mostly upright. "Time to get you home to bed, I think."

"Mmmm." Napoleon squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed at the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "So much for tiny teacups. I think I must have underestimated how much brandy I was putting on top of the codeine," he said, just loud enough to be overheard by the nearest clump of partygoers. It was beautifully done -- a performance so subtle that with any luck the audience wouldn't even notice the lines had been spoken until the players had left the stage.

"So I can see." Illya waited the extra beat he ostensibly needed to be certain that Napoleon had found his balance before letting go of his partner's arm. "How many did you have?"

"I lost track." Napoleon shrugged, very carefully not allowing his head to tilt or turn. "Can you reach my cane?"

"Of course."

They made it to the corridor without being accosted, and Illya ducked up the stairs to their desks to collect coats while Napoleon made a quick stop at the little Agent's room. He took the elevator down to the rendezvous, but when the doors slid open Napoleon was not waiting alone. Mr. Waverly was with him. 

Fortunately, Illya had already put on his coat. His long winter coat. He stepped off the elevator and made himself busy by shaking out Napoleon's coat and presenting it to be donned. He didn't dare meet his partner's eyes, although he couldn't help but notice that the back of Napoleon's neck was flushed.

"Ah, Mr. Kuryakin," Mr. Waverly said, nodding pleasantly. "I was just about to come and have a word with you."

"Yes, sir," Illya replied. A bit woodenly, he knew, but he couldn't quite help it when all the wrong parts of him were going stiff with apprehension. 

"I've been going through the files," the Old Man said, tapping with his pipe at the manila folder her had tucked under one arm. "And it appears that you've been neglecting some of your paperwork."

"Paperwork?" Illya echoed, offering Napoleon an apologetic shrug. At least it wasn't an assignment. "Can't it wait until morning?"

"I'm afraid not." Mr. Waverly said, not in the least apologetically. "It concerns your use of time."

"My use of..."

"You have a given number of vacation days, Mr. Kuryakin, and you are expected to take them within the calendar year," Waverly overrode Illya's half-formed query. "And yet I see that you have some time unaccounted for. The stresses of this occupation require a certain amount of relaxation in compensation."

"I thought I'd used the last of my time, sir," Illya protested unwillingly. "When I was recovering from that incident with the leopard." 

"A tired agent makes mistakes, and recuperation leave is not the same thing as a holiday." Waverly passed the manila folder to Illya and began to root in his pocket for his tobacco pouch. He turned the gimlet eye on Napoleon, who straightened his face hastily. "Something I think I should remind _you_ of, Mr. Solo. You should be resting that knee, not gallivanting about the city and turning up in the office every second day. And definitely not distracting any of the young people who work in our Files section. They have enough trouble getting through their work this time of year without any help from Section Two." 

"Yes, sir," Napoleon said, nearly managing to sound chastened. He was swaying gently as he balanced on the uninjured leg. "I'll do my best to only distract people who _don't_ work in Files."

Illya managed not to make a noise somehow, not wanting the Waverly glare to turn in his direction again. "Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate will be unavailable," the head of UNCLE New York intoned disapprovingly, "since I will be expecting them to cover for _both_ your absences."

"Both our..." Illya took another look at the paperwork in his hands, actually reading it this time. "A week, sir?"

"That's right. I don't want to see hide nor hair of either one of you until after the New Year." For a moment a wintry little smile appeared on the craggy face. "It should be rather restful."

 _Perhaps for you,_ Illya thought, considering all the possible ways he and Napoleon might fill the empty hours which suddenly stretched before them. "It has been a very eventful month," he conceded. "A few days off will be something to look forward to."

"I'm not sure about Illya," Napoleon added, altogether too innocently, "but all I'm looking forward to tonight is a cup of hot tea and a chance to get horizontal."

It was Illya's turn to shoot a "don't overplay it" glare in Napoleon's direction, which Napoleon met with waggle of eyebrows. Fortunately, at that precise moment Mr. Waverly appeared to be distracted by the discovery that his box of matches was empty. 

"I'm sure I'll think of something to do with myself," Illya said, hoping he might see a flicker of dismay in Napoleon's expression at the implied threat. Although the grin he got instead was much more rewarding. "I'll just find you a taxicab," he added, unable to keep a scowl on his face despite his words.

"Ah, but you're my chauffeur tonight, remember?" Napoleon chided him gleefully, throwing a companionable arm over Illya's shoulders as he aimed for the call button of the elevator with the tip of his cane. "You promised. A good agent always keeps his word, doesn't he, Mr. Waverly?"

The elevator doors slid open and Waverly began to shoo Napoleon and Illya into motion. He had the look of a man with an incipient headache. "Yes, yes, of course. Mr. Kuryakin, see to it that Mr. Solo gets his tea and makes it safely into bed. He appears to have been celebrating rather enthusiastically for a man in his condition."

"If you insist, sir," Illya said, escorting Napoleon into the elevator car. He turned to nod a farewell. "Good night, Mr. Waverly."

"See you next year!" Napoleon added brightly.

"Good night, gentlemen," Waverly said, nodding back. "And a Merry Christmas to both of you."

"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!" Napoleon called, as the doors slid shut again. "A very _very_ good night," he added in Illya's ear. 

Illya, awkwardly aware of the heat of Napoleon's body where it leaned against his own, and uncomfortably aware of the surveillance cameras in the elevators and passages of HQ (but lacking the excuse of apparent inebriation) exercised discipline and restraint until they'd reached the garage and he'd seen Napoleon into the passenger seat of his car. Then he had to exercise even more discipline and restraint when he got around to the driver's side and discovered that Napoleon was idly swirling a fingertip around the top of the knob on the end of the stick shift between the bucket seats, down where the cameras couldn't see. 

But if Thrush tortures weren't enough to sway him from his purpose, he wasn't about to let blatant reminders do so. Illya took his place behind the wheel and started the car. "The last time I was in Moscow it was winter," he began, hoping the story would distract Napoleon long enough to make the drive safely. Although in retrospect he would realize that talking about the joys of licking ice cream cones in a snowstorm was probably an error, even if Napoleon was making encouraging noises every time he faltered in his recitation.

It wasn't until they had pulled into Illya's parking space that he remembered the tea set which was still sitting back at the party. "Tch. We forgot your Christmas gift."

"No you didn't," Napoleon said, and somehow he'd managed to get his hand up behind Illya's head, was running that same fingertip down the nape of Illya's neck.

"I didn't?" Illya's voice came out strange. All he'd done was turn his head, but somehow his whole body had followed, and leaned, so that Napoleon's smile was mere inches from his own.

"No," Napoleon said, amusement in his eyes. "What do I need with Christmas presents when I've got your Christmas presence?" His lips brushed Illya's, the briefest taste of warmth and brandy and promise, devastating any hope Illya had of disentangling the pun before morning. _No matter._ He had the satisfaction of knowing that he had correctly deduced at least one thing Napoleon Solo did need, and he'd prove it, too, when he got Napoleon up to his apartment and the rest of the preparations waiting there.

_I wonder what will he say when I put on the Santa hat?_

*[Russian Tea](http://www.streetdirectory.com/food_editorials/beverages/teas/russian_tea.html)

 


End file.
